Chapter 22
RHIANNON
I’ve been staring at my phone for twenty minutes.
Carter’s sitting across from me at CC’s coffee shop on campus, pretending to read something on his laptop but obviously watching me.
We came here after spending the morning at his apartment, ostensibly to work on the research paper, but I’ve done nothing except open my contacts, scroll to “Mom,” and freeze.
“You don’t have to do this today,” Carter says quietly. “Or at all, if you’re not ready.”
“I’m not ready,” I admit. “But I don’t think I’ll ever feel ready. Maybe I should wait until I see her in person.”
Carter tilts his head at me. “Rhi, you can’t keep avoiding her forever.”
“Watch me.”
“I’m serious. Even if you decide you need distance, even if you decide the relationship isn’t healthy—you have to actually make that decision. Consciously. Not just... hide.”
And damn it, he’s right.
So here I am. Staring at my phone like it’s a live grenade.
“What if she makes me feel like I’m being ridiculous?” I ask. “What if she guilt-trips me about Matthew? What if she—”
“Then you hang up,” Carter says simply. “You’re allowed to end a conversation that isn’t right for you. You’re allowed to say ‘I need to go’ and hang up the phone. She can’t actually reach through and stop you. Then we breathe, think, and go again.”
I look up at him. “When did you get so wise about boundaries?”
“I’ve had some counselling in the past,” he admits with a small smile. “Turns out I’m really good at giving advice I don’t follow myself. But I’m working on it. By the way”—he tips his coffee cup at me—“you were right. This is really good coffee. I knew you’d bring me on this date.” He winks.
I laugh, my shoulders dropping a little.
I take a breath. Another. My finger hovers over her name.
“Alright. I can do it.”
“Do you want me to leave?” Carter asks. “Give you privacy?”
“No. Stay.” I need him here. Need the reminder that there’s someone who sees me clearly and doesn’t need me to be perfect. “Just... maybe don’t listen too hard?”
“I’ll put my headphones in. But I’m here if you need me.”
He does exactly that, and I relax a little into the chair.
I press call before I can change my mind.
It rings twice.
“Rhiannon.” My mother’s voice is sharp, controlled. “I’ve been trying to reach you for two days.”
“I know. I’m sorry I didn’t call back sooner.”
“Christmas, Rhiannon. You couldn’t even call on Christmas?”
Here we go. I close my eyes, trying to hold onto the feeling of Carter’s hand reaching across the table earlier, the way Professor Bam had written “Excellent work” in her email, the way I felt when I woke up this morning—capable. Whole.
“I had no signal, Mom. I told you ages ago about this research trip.”
“Well, I still think the whole thing was unnecessary, Rhiannon. I mean, you should be with family on Christmas, people who care.”
“I was with people who care about me,” I say carefully. “I wasn’t alone.”
“Who? That boy? The one you just met?” Her tone implies I’ve taken up with some vagrant.
Has Matthew already spoken to her?
That little weasel!
I pinch the space between my eyebrows. “Have you spoken to Matthew by any chance, Mom?”
“A mother knows these things. And, Rhiannon, I’m concerned. This isn’t like you. Breaking up with darling Matthew, running off on some research project, missing Christmas with your family—”
“Mom.” I cut her off, and my voice is steadier than I expected. “I need to tell you something, and I need you to listen.”
Silence. She’s not used to me interrupting her.
“I know you think you’re helping,” I continue. “I know you want what’s best for me. But the way you’ve been handling my breakup with Matthew isn’t helping. It’s making everything harder.”
“I simply think—”
“Please let me finish. I know what you think. You make it abundantly clear to me what you think.” My heart is hammering, but I keep going.
“You’ve been pushing me to reconsider. To think about what I’m giving up.
To remember how good we were together. But Mom, we weren’t good together. He wasn’t good for me.”
“Matthew is a kind, successful man from a good family. He treated you well—”
“He made me feel like I had to be perfect every second of every day. Like any mistake or flaw was a reflection on him. Like my worth was tied to whether I could be the woman he wanted me to be.” The words are pouring out now, three months of suppressed truth.
“I couldn’t relax around him. I couldn’t be myself.
And when I tried to end things, he made me feel like I was throwing away something precious instead of protecting myself. ”
“That’s not how I remember—”
“Because you weren’t there for most of it.
You saw the polished version we showed at family dinners.
You saw him being charming and attentive.
You didn’t see how he’d criticize the way I dressed if it wasn’t elegant enough.
Or how he’d get passive-aggressive if I wanted to spend time with friends instead of him.
Or how he’d make me feel stupid for caring about rocks and school.
” My voice cracks on that last word. “He made me feel stupid, Mom. All the time.”
There’s a long pause. I can hear her breathing.
“I didn’t know,” she says finally, and her voice is different. Smaller. “Rhiannon, I didn’t know it was like that.”
“I know you didn’t. Because I didn’t tell you. Because I knew you loved him, loved the idea of us together, and I didn’t want to disappoint you. Again.”
“Again?”
I didn’t mean to say that part. But it’s out now, so I might as well finish.
“I’ve spent my whole life trying to be what you wanted.
The perfect daughter. Perfect grades, perfect relationship, perfect career path.
And somewhere along the way, I forgot how to just..
. be. To be imperfect and messy and still okay.
” I’m crying now, silent tears streaming down my face.
Across the table, Carter’s looking at me with concern, headphones around his neck.
I wave him off. I need to do this. “This research project, this time away from everyone’s expectations—it’s the first time in years I’ve felt like myself. Like I could breathe.”
My mother is quiet for so long I think she might have hung up.
“I’ve been too hard on you.”
I wasn’t expecting that.
“You’ve always been so capable,” she continues. “So driven. So put-together. I suppose, I thought... I suppose, I thought you were fine. That you didn’t need the kind of support your sister needed. She was always struggling, always needing guidance, and you were just... handling everything.”
“I wasn’t handling it. I was drowning. I just knew how to look like I was swimming.”
Another pause. “I’m sorry,” she says, and she sounds like she means it. “I’m sorry I pushed about Matthew. I’m sorry I made you feel like you couldn’t tell me the truth. I’m sorry I’ve been so focused on what I wanted for you.”
The apology cracks something open in my chest. Relief and grief and a tentative, fragile hope.
“Thank you,” I manage. “That means a lot.”
“But, Rhiannon”—and there it is, the inevitable ‘but’—“I’m still your mother. And I’m still going to worry. This boy you’re with, this Carter. You barely know him. And getting involved with someone right after a breakup—”
“Mom.” I cut her off again, but this time it’s gentler. “I appreciate that you’re worried. But I need you to trust me to make my own decisions about my life. Even if they’re not the decisions you would make. Even if they turn out to be mistakes.”
“I just don’t want you to get hurt.” Her voice cracks a little as she says it and I wonder what kind of heartbreak my mother experienced before I was born.
“I know. But I’m twenty-two years old. I get to decide what risks are worth taking. And Carter”—I glance at him, and he’s watching me with those warm brown eyes that make me feel seen—“he’s not a risk I’m worried about. He’s probably the first thing I’ve been sure about in a long time.”
I hear her take a breath. When she speaks again, her voice is careful. “Tell me about him.”
It’s not acceptance. Not quite. But it’s not dismissal either.
So I do. I tell her about the research project, about Carter’s humor and his vulnerability and the way he makes me feel like I don’t have to be perfect.
And she listens.
We talk for another twenty minutes. It’s not perfect. She still slips into advice mode a few times, still suggests I should “take things slow” and “be careful.” But there’s also something different. A willingness to hear me. To try.
When we finally say goodbye, she says, “I love you, sweetheart.”
“I love you too, Mom.”
“Call me next week? I’d like to hear more about this research of yours,” she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice.
“I will,” I promise.
I end the call and just sit there for a second, phone in my lap, feeling wrung out and lighter at the same time.
Carter slides his laptop closed. “How did it go?”
“I did it.” The words come out shaky. “I actually stood up to her.”
“Yeah, you did.” He’s grinning at me. “You’re so brave.”
“I cried the whole time.”
“Crying doesn’t mean you weren’t brave. Brave means doing the scary thing even though you’re terrified.” He reaches across the table and takes my hand. “How do you feel?”
I think about it. “Exhausted. Relieved. Scared that nothing’s actually changed. But also...” I squeeze his hand. “Proud. I’m proud of myself.”
“You should be.”
“She apologized,” I say, still processing it. “I didn’t expect that.”
“People surprise us.”
He’s right. God, when did he get so good at this?
We sit there for a while longer, my hand in his, the coffee shop bustling around us. I feel raw and new, like I’ve shed a skin I didn’t know I was wearing.
“Hey,” Carter says eventually. “You know what you need?”
“What?”
“Terrible diner food and a milkshake. Comfort food. To celebrate.”
“Celebrate what? I just had the most stressful phone call of my life.”
“Exactly. You survived it. You faced your fear and came out the other side. That deserves a celebration.” He stands up, pulling me with him. “Come on. My treat.”
Later, after eating at Dora’s Diner, we end up back at his apartment. Jake’s at the fraternity house, so it’s just us.
I’m curled up on his couch, still feeling the emotional hangover from the call, when Carter comes back from the kitchen with two mugs of tea.
“Earl Grey with too much honey. See, I remember,” he says, handing me one.
“You’re very good at this,” I observe.
“At what?”
“Taking care of people. Being present. Knowing what they need.”
He settles next to me, close enough that our shoulders touch. “I’m learning. Mostly from you.”
“From me?”
“You show up. Even when it’s scary. Even when it would be easier to run.” He’s looking at me with that expression that makes my heart squeeze. “You’re teaching me how to do that.”
We drink our tea in comfortable silence. Outside, it’s starting to snow again, fat flakes drifting past the window. The apartment is warm and quiet, and for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel the need to fill the silence with perfection.
“I’m glad you were there today,” I tell him. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“You absolutely could have. But I’m glad I got to be there anyway.”
I set my mug down and turn to face him fully. “I mean it, Carter. You make me feel like I can do hard things. Like I’m strong enough to face my fears.”
“You are strong enough. You always have been. You just forgot for a while.”
“Then you reminded me.”
“We reminded each other.”
I kiss him then, soft and slow and full of gratitude. When we pull apart, he’s smiling that smile that transforms his whole face.
“So,” he says. “Tomorrow’s therapy. The day after that, we need to finish the draft of the paper. And then—”
“And then New Year’s Eve,” I finish. “Your frat house party.”
“Are you nervous?”
“A little. Meeting everyone, being in the house where your brother—” I pause. “Is that weird?”
“No. It’s not weird.” He pauses. “Actually, I think it’ll be good. Being there with you, talking about Dom with the guys, celebrating the year ending and the new one starting.” He squeezes my hand. “New beginnings.”
“New beginnings,” I echo.
And sitting there in his apartment, with the snow falling outside and the warmth of his hand in mine, I think about everything that’s changed.
How a month ago I was too afraid to set a single boundary.
How I was trapped in a relationship that made me small.
How I thought love meant performing perfection.
Now I’m here. Imperfect. Messy. Still figuring it out.
But free.
And loved for exactly who I am.
“Thank you,” I whisper against his shoulder.
“For what?”
“For seeing me. The real me. Not the perfect version I try to be.”
“Rhi.” He tilts my chin up so I’m looking at him. “The real you is my favorite version. Always.”
I believe him.
And that might be the biggest change of all.